


Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by adoxyinherear



Category: The Outer Worlds (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27765577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adoxyinherear/pseuds/adoxyinherear
Summary: He’s looking at you now with his fine lips curled, eyes liquid-heat, blunt chin begging to be seized. If anything’s a sin, it’s the persistent space between his body and yours.--Totally indulgent one-shot.
Relationships: The Captain/Maximillian DeSoto
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	Beggars Can't Be Choosers

“You’re an artist, Captain.”

For a holy man, the Vicar has an appreciation for vice and violence that surprises you. Still, when he compliments your expert application of a Mag-Pick, you can’t deny the warmth that begins in your belly and creeps up - your breastbone hot as a gun barrel, your neck plasma-touched and red, red, red. You think the Vicar’s hands might be cool and soft, on account of all the reading.

But you’ve seen him with a tossball stick and that’s evidence enough they’re not. He’ll have calluses on the heel of his hand, his thumb rough with the stories of his kills. An indication of the hard work he’s always proselytizing about.

You can think of a few ways you’d like him to work hard.

Religion took a sharp turn for the blatantly corporate while you were on ice. It was always there under the surface, more about control than comfort, so you’re not exactly surprised. Curious, more like. You wonder if the Vicar has a mind for conversion, if he’ll fault you for not being a believer. But what Grand Plan would include the scuttling of the Hope? The freezer-pop non-existence of thousands of souls adrift in space until Welles got a shock stick up his ass and decided to play mad scientist? Until you, thawed and hibernation-addled and out of time, literally.

Outside his frequent spats with Nyoka, though, the Vicar hasn’t made much of an effort to preach to the crew. He isn’t shy about voicing his opinion but he doesn’t hold court, doesn’t seek a pulpit. He’ll only shoulder his weapon, vestments spattered with rapt gore, and declare some observation about the order of the universe without any expectation of recognition or dialogue. It’s not even that he likes the sound of his own voice - though you think he does, in the way most men do - but that he just can’t help himself. That he sees a wonder and a rightness in things that eludes you and everybody else who hasn’t taken to the cloth. 

You could do with less of it. Order. Cloth. 

Craving the chaos of nakedness and urgency something fierce, you lure him to the captain’s quarters under false pretenses. Well, not exactly. You did find a new book for him and you do hope it’ll serve him, if words can serve a person the way he seems to think they can. You’re only hoping he’ll return the gesture with one of his own, that he’ll save the reading for later and bury his not-soft hand somewhere plush and wet and sweet. 

“It’s not even my birthday, Captain.”

“Who gives somebody a book on their birthday?”

“I do.”

“That’s an outright unkindness, Vicar.”

He laughs, the sound halved between his throat and his chest, rough and hearty. It lodges itself somewhere behind your sternum, that laugh, because you were the cause of it, because you moved him just a little nearer joy. The Vicar meets your eyes and his are crinkled at the corners and his lips, too. You want to kiss those seams smooth so much it makes you ache. He’s not old enough to be your father but he’s certainly of an age to have been able to cradle you, to have been nearer the breaking of his voice in adolescence than he was to the nursery when you were born.

But you’re feeling about as old as the sun and the stars lately and you’re of a mind to cradle him between your thighs.

“Do you want a drink?”

You’re not desperate but the Spectrum Vodka you’re offering is definitely a bribe. There’s no other place to sit except beside you on the bunk so when he takes the proffered bottle, he does just that. He’s close enough that you can smell the soap he uses to shave with, the laundry powder-clean of his clothes, a salt-tang musk that must be his skin. You want to lick it off but you settle for pressing your lips to the bottle’s rim after he swallows and passes it back to you.

“Warm liquor ought to be a sin.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Vicar.”

“I’m hardly a beggar.”

He’s looking at you now with his fine lips curled, eyes liquid-heat, blunt chin begging to be seized. If anything’s a sin, it’s the persistent space between his body and yours. 

With a speed you’ve only seen from him in the middle of a fight, he pushes you back against the bunk, his teeth scraping your lips and then your tongue when the pressure of his kiss lays you wide open. One of his hands slides from belly to hip to thigh, his thumb seeking. The other’s got you firm by the back of the neck as he steadies you, his whole length crowding the bunk and your body. He’s heavy but you want every bit of him pressing into you, finding the buttons on his trousers faster than your last picked lock. You’ve got deft fingers. They’re out of practice for this but you haven’t forgotten the motions. 

Even blocks of ice remember how to melt.

You didn’t take the Vicar for a talker but he keeps up a steady stream of curses, of sweetness, or wordless murmurings that might just be a language you don’t understand. Every stroke is building towards a conclusion you’re torn between rushing for and slowing down to savor the breadth of his shoulders, the depths of his mouth, the way his hips pitch and slam and slide against your body. 

He holds you close when it’s impossible to be still, rocking deeper with a groan. His tongue finds the hollow behind your ear and instead of talking he sucks, he bites. You howl and something cracks open inside, some last piece of you thawed, finally, finally, finally. 

You lie together after, your body backed up into his, trapping the heat you created. His hands are still slowly exploring, gentle, curious touches - until they aren’t. The Vicar’s breath slows against your back, lips soft in sleep.

You smile and close your eyes.


End file.
